Blunt
by heyshalina
Summary: Dean wasn't stupid. It was just that sometimes he felt like it, and sometimes he pretended to be. Wee!Chesters, Sam 9, Dean 13. Dean angst and plenty of John hate to go around. T for Winchester language.


**Hiya.**

**This is a story that began as a little late-night rambling and ended up like 9,000 words. It's the longest one-shot I think I've ever written.**

**This one gets a little sad and a little corny, but it serves my needs for Dean angst, so I dealt with it.**

**In this story Sam is 9 and Dean is 13. **

**Reviews are a girl's best friend :D**

* * *

Dean wasn't stupid. He could count, do his basic arithmetic, do a little algebra if he's forced to. Could fire a gun like a grown man, and had even built his own sawed-off, which in his opinion was pretty great for a thirteen-year-old. Sure, it had taken him a little bit longer to learn to read than most kids, but that wasn't their fault. Dad had been busy hunting and Dean had been busy taking care of Sammy, so he hadn't had time for school. It wasn't like he was an invalid, he had known what things were, it was just that letters had a hard time stringing together as words for awhile. He'd learned eventually. He could read fine, now.

No, Dean wasn't stupid, and he knew that. It was just sometimes he felt like it.

And damn if feeling stupid didn't _hurt_.

"Dean, goddamnit, I told you to wait by the car." John growled for the seventh time in the past ten minutes, taking Dean from his arms and depositing him gently on the hood of the trunk and running a hand over the sleeve of Dean's jacket, swearing under his breath when his hand came up warm and sticky. Dean hoped he wouldn't get blood on the Impala. Dad hated when that happened.

Dean turned his face up and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his good arm. "'m sorry," he muttered. "I heard you shout."

"Dean, it was a shapeshifter." John stressed, taking a first aid kit out of the back seat of the Chevy. Had Dean shuck off his top layer. Paled even more when he saw his son's grey long-sleeve shirt sleeve stained crimson. "It took my form because it knew I was hunting it, wanted to try to confuse us. You should have stayed at your post."

_I couldn't_, Dean thought miserably, clenching his teeth at the pain that rode through his upper arm._ I couldn't stand here while you could have been dying_. But he had seen his dad die. He'd seen it when John Winchester put a silver bullet straight through the shapeshifter's head, and he'd seen it as the dead body of his not-father fell on top of him. He'd seen it.

It traumatized him.

Dean shook his head quickly, banishing panicky thoughts and unshed tears. "You...you mean it knew we were hunting it, right Dad?" He flashed his father a wavering grin.

John didn't answer.

"I-I'm sorry sir," Dean's voice shook as John cut away his shirt and poured antiseptic on the cut, fishing some string out of the first aid along with a clean needle. "I, I mean, it won't happen again. I won't let it get the jump on me. It won't happen again."

John set his jaw and placed the four stitches into Dean's arm before wiping it and wrapping it, sliding the ripped jacket back over his son's shoulders. They'd have to get a new one. He stood, running both hands through his hair as he turned away from Dean and sighed angrily.

"An order is an order, you got that?" He didn't turn to see if Dean had reacted from his harsh tone. "You scared the shit out of me, Dean. You-you_ knew_ it was out there, you knew what it was, you knew I was armed, and you disobeyed my direct order and nearly got yourself killed."

Dean's jaw trembled. "I-"

John's voice turned cold. "I don't know how you can be so goddamn _stupid_ all the time, Dean!"

Dean froze, but his body kept on shivering, and tears pooled at the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away hastily. "It won't happen again, sir. I-I promise."

John's cold demeanor slipped away so that all that remained was a hitch in his eyebrows. He turned around and cupped Dean's shoulder with his hand, what could have been half of a smile etched on his face. "C'mon, tiger." He muttered. "I'll get you some pills, and then we'll go home. I bet Sammy's starving. You want Chinese?"

Dean coughed a bit, bowing his head again as John helped him off of the car and closed the door behind him as he slipped into the passenger seat. A second later John was behind the wheel and handing Dean a bottle of water and a couple of Aspirin.

"What do you say, kid?"

Dean shook his head a little, hands bundled in his lap. "Pizza?"

John laughed, but even to his own ears it sounded strained. "Pizza it is then." He pulled away from his parking spot and began working his way toward the main road. "But only if there's mushrooms."

Dean made a "_yeck_" sound, and John chuckled as he switched on the radio, and Led Zeppelin started flooding the car. John hummed along a bit, his eyes on the road, but Dean had shifted to look out the window, eyes squinted and motormouth completely silent.

_Stupid_, Dean scolded himself, and scratched the inside of his palm. _Stupid_.

* * *

"Come on, Dean, we're gonna be late!" Sam whined, pulling at his older brother's sleeve. All of nine years old and Sam was still eager for school every morning of every day. Dean spiked up one last strand of hair and adjusted his jacket before he let Sam drag him out the door, locking the motel room door behind them. They hurried to the bus stop down the street, and Dean picked at his sleeve, shifting his backpack.

"Relax, Dean." Sam shifted his own book bag, which looked much heavier than it should have been for a fourth grader. The early October air breezed through their hair as they waited for the school bus to take them to their respective buildings, with Dean in middle school. "You can't even see the bandage through your jacket, no one's gonna notice."

It was five days after the incident with the shapeshifter, and Sam and Dean were already on their second day at a new school across the state in western Minnesota. John had found another hunt, although he hadn't pinned down what exactly he was hunting yet. He had promised that after the hunt was over, though, that they could go visit Uncle Bobby. Dean could tell that his little brother still wasn't thrilled with Dean's new "battle scar", but after four days of telling him "he was fine, so go shove it", he'd finally stopped complaining about the hunt.

Dean hadn't stopped thinking about it.

Once the bus had arrived, Sam had taken off down the aisle to sit with one of his new friends that he had made the day previous, some kid with glasses and poofy red hair...Teddy? Tommy? Whatever. Dean sat down near the front, but not close enough that the bus driver would think that he didn't have any friends. Granted, he didn't...not yet. He was the new kid still, and he didn't seem to make little friends as easily as Sammy. Not that he wanted to. They would be gone in a few weeks, and that meant attachments were futile. Sam was just setting himself up for disappointment. Again.

He waved bye to Sam as he stepped off of the bus with his friend to run into the elementary school building, sinking down into the seat again once his little brother was inside and out of sight. It was only a minute's ride to the middle school from there, and Dean hopped off without a moment's hesitation, shifting his lightweight backpack awkwardly around his pained arm and taking off into the school in search of his homeroom.

It wasn't that Dean didn't..._enjoy_ learning, it was just that he didn't enjoy it. Or the teachers. Even the hot ones, which were seemingly spare, made math or science or music or whatever he was supposed to learn boring. All he could think of was when he would pick Sammy up and ride the bus home, where he could help his dad with the hunt, talk what it could be, clean the guns, practice his throwing knives, go for a run. Be better. Be smart. He had to be smart. Not stupid.

He trudged into the library with his English classmates, looking as uninterested as possible and depositing himself in the corner of their designated area, ignoring the idle chit chat of his peers. As soon as his arm was better, he swore that he get right back to practicing, ten times as hard as before, and even over the holidays. He was going to get to good with the crossbow Dad had in the back of the Impala that John would be proud to take him on hunts, would count him as an asset. Would trust him, rely on him. See that he was worth it.

"Dean?" A strong but quiet feminine voice infiltrated his daydream. His teacher, Ms. Whatsherface, uh, Ms. Warden, Warren, Waldo, something like that, was standing next to the chair he was in. She was about thirty, with dirty blond hair pulled back in a ponytail that said that she was trying to be professional, and sort of failing. He glanced up at her, and realized with a start that all of the talking had ceased, and nearly every kid in his whole class was sitting in a chair, reading. Save for the two kids in the opposite corner throwing gum wrappers at each other, but there was a grand majority.

"You're Dean Simmons, right?" Dean nodded, smirking to himself about the last name. Dad had let him pick this time. "Hi, I didn't get to talk to you that much yesterday because of the fire drill, I'm Ms. Waller."

He'd gotten the first letter right. Close enough.

"We're having a reading session for class today while I grade some of the projects the kids did last week. I know you probably don't care about that, but just relax and grab a book, okay?"

Dean blinked at her, and then bit his lip. "Yeah, okay." he consented, and Ms. Waller flashed him a smile before she walked back to her table, setting an array of papers out in front of her. He glanced at the clock, down at the table, and then up at the clock again. 45 minutes of class.

What the hell.

Dean groaned inwardly and reached over to his right, grabbing a random book from the shelf that he could pretend to read for the next period before lunch started. He didn't even read the title before he skipped to the first page, eyes skimming the text. Somewhere along the way, though, skimming turned into reading, and reading turned into being lost in. He flew over the words as fast as he could while still retaining their meaning, gears churning in his head as he progressed. He read over the first words again, shocked that he had missed them.

_The boy with fair hair lowered himself down the last few feet of rock and began..._

"Dean?"

He snapped his head up and the book shut, eyes wide and shocked. Ms. Waller came forward a step, setting a gentle hand on the table. Dean quickly shoved the book behind him on his chair, glancing around him. Everyone was gone. His eyes flew up to the clock. Fifty minutes had passed. He had spent fifty minutes reading, and now he was late to lunch. Great, now everyone was going to eat all of the pie. He stood up quickly, meaning to grab his bag and bypass the teacher, but she stopped him as he passed by.

"Did you like the book?" She asked, and he stopped, eyes downcast. He looked back, and saw that she was holding the book he'd left on the seat in her hand. He gulped and stepped sideways a little before resigning himself and nodding just a tiny bit.

Ms. Waller took the book and looked at it, giving it a once over before bringing it back down and holding it out. _"Lord of the Flies_. Excellent choice. Not what I would have guessed as a first choice of the year, but..." She looked up as she realized that Dean had been slowly inching toward the exit. "Dean."

He stopped again and looked at her, swallowing some more in nervousness. He didn't know why he was nervous, he just...he was just hungry. He just wanted lunch, that's it. Ms. Waller stepped closer to him, still holding out the book. "You can take it, if you want." She offered. "I'll check it out for you, and you can give it to me when you're done."

Dean bit his lip, about to shake his head. "I...no, I-"

"You can learn a lot from books." Ms. Waller said. "Most of my smarts are from books just like this."

Dean paused, shifting back and forth. "How smart are you?" He asked, mostly sarcastically. Mostly.

She raised an eyebrow. "Pretty smart."

Dean nodded.

"I'll check it out for you," She told him, setting the book down on the table. "If you don't read it in a couple of weeks, no harm, no foul. But you can try it if you want. You looked pretty interested before. Even missed the bell."

Dean looked at her for a long moment before he stepped forward quickly, grabbing the book with his good hand and tucking it into his jacket before turning tail and jetting out of the library doors before Ms. Waller could even smile.

* * *

"So, what, you think it's a werewolf? Demon, what?" Dean asked, flipping through newspaper clippings that John had cut out and spread across the table. His father was currently flipping through his journal, marking things down, crossing things out, and re-reading. Sam watched them from the couch, channel surfing on the crappy television.

"No, I don't think so." John mused, flipping a magazine in his hand before inserting it into his .45 and placing it on the table. "Werewolves don't do this sort of thing, they're...neater, if that's possible. This is almost like a full on bloodbath."

Dean crinkled his nose. "Nasty."

"Are you sure it's not like, a serial killer or something?" Sam piped up, jumping from his position on the couch and making his way to the kitchen table. Dean and John scowled simultaneously.

"Go do your homework, Sammy." Dean told him. "It's nearly nine."

"I did mine." Sam said pointedly, crossing his arms. "What about you, Dean? Did you do your homework?"

"Sure I did." Dean replied smoothly. "All done."

"You're a liar." Sam accused. "I saw it all in your backpack, you didn't do a thing, and you're not going to, are you?"

"You went through my stuff, you little jerk?" Dean snapped, anger forming on his brow.

"Sam, settle down, and don't go through your brother's things. Dean, go do your homework." Dean stared at his father incredulously for a moment, and John looked up at him, sighing. "Now, Dean. Go."

Muttering under his breath, Dean got up and moved across the floor, crossing into the tiny second room with one full size bed that he and Sammy had to share and closing the door. He flopped onto the bed, bringing his backpack up onto it with him. He shuffled through the handouts that had been given to him that day, his level of disgust rising with each math equation and history problem he looked at. Finally, he shoved it all back into his backpack without having even picked up a pen, and sunk back into the thin pillows. His gaze stuck on the backpack for a moment, and, knowing that his Dad would just yell at him if he came out anytime soon, reached inside and pulled out the book Ms. Waller had given him, pushing the bag onto the floor. He opened up where he had left off and, making sure no one was watching, began to read.

He fell asleep, still reading, two hours later, the hand holding the book sprawled out over the side of the bed until gravity won over and the book dropped to the floor. When John came in, carrying a sleeping Sam, he didn't notice the book separated from the unfinished school work, and just turned out the lamp light before closing the door softly.

* * *

A week later Dean stayed back a moment in his English class, which was back in the original classroom. He was upset that he had to learn grammar and other stupid stuff instead of hiding in the corner of the library and pretending he wasn't reading, but such was life. He had finished _Lord of the Flies_ a day before, and was just working up the courage now to approach Ms. Waller. He sauntered up the aisles of desks from his place in the back of the classroom, as if he was just taking his time instead of hanging back. By the time he reached the front, all of the other kids were gone, and Ms. Waller had taken a seat behind her desk. He stopped awkwardly in front of it and scratched the base of his skull, grinning slightly, his backpack hanging off of one shoulder.

Ms. Waller glanced up at him. "Yes, Dean?" she asked, giving him a smile. "Did you happen to catch my lesson on adverbs today? I heard from the students that were paying attention that it was very educational."

Dean flushed, and ran his hand through what little hair he had, biting his lip and shifting. "Uh, well," He shrugged, grinning. "I, I just...I finished that book."

Ms. Waller raised her eyebrows, crossing her arms. "Did you like it?"

Dean nodded quickly, pulling it swiftly out of his backpack and placing it on her desk. "Yeah. I did, I...it was good." He shifted again, slinging his bag back on his shoulder. "So you can give it back to the library now. I'm all done. Unless you want me to, then..."

"Oh, no, I'll return it." Ms. Waller said, and Dean made a move for the door. He stopped when she spoke again. "Would you like another, Dean? To read? You seemed like you enjoyed it."

Yeah, sure. Whatever.

He turned back, and she took a few books out of her desk, putting them on top. "You can have one of these to read, if you want."

Dean stared at them for moment, and then glanced up at her, and then back down to the books again. Before she could even blink he was striding back to the table, picking up the books to look at them. He picked the thinnest one and nodded carefully, retreating out the door.

He stayed behind again three days later, and then a week after that, and four days after that, etc. He never asked for another book, but she always offered him one, and he always took it with a small, grateful smile.

* * *

Dean sat in the motel room, the door to the small second room closed shut. He bundled himself up among the thin pillows, propped up against the headboard, nose practically burrowed in a book. Ms. Waller had just given him _The Giver_ that day, and Dean was already nearly a third of the way through. He supposed that he was so engrossed in it because it was about a boy who had his life chosen for him, a life where he discovered all the truths that were hidden just left of the normal world, and he had to face it. Because no one else could.

He could relate, he guessed. Maybe.

No knock accompanied Sam's entrance into the room, and Dean jolted upright so fast he banged his elbow on the headboard, shoving the book beneath his pillow.

"What do you want, Sam?" He bit, trying to act as though he had just been sitting there. Yeah right. "I-I'm busy."

"You were reading." Sam observed, coming in closer. "But...you don't like to read. What were you reading?"

"Nothing!" Dean exclaimed, scooting farther back on the bed to obscure any possible view. "Nothing, it's for school."

Sam gave him a doubtful look, but then recovered, shaking it off. "It's almost six, and Dad says we have to be back by dark if we're going to go."

Dean stared at his little brother, obviously lost. "...What?"

Sam rolled his eyes, pulled a bitchface. "Dean, it's Halloween! We're going trick-or-treating? Dad said that you'd come with me and Tyler!"

Oh. So that was his name.

"Well, uh, Sam," Dean began to mope a little bit. He hadn't remembered it was Halloween, and he had planned on finishing the book the whole way through so he could tell Ms. Waller. It was his favorite one yet. Seeing Sam's frown at his hesitation, however, stopped him halfway through thinking of refusing. "Sorry, kiddo, I guess I forgot. You got a costume?"

Sam raised an eyebrow at him. "Of course I have a costume, stupid." He smirked. "Tyler wanted to go as Star Fleet Officers, his older brother convinced him and said I could have one of his shirts because I didn't have money." Sam paused, looked unsure. "Do you have a costume, Dean?"

Nope.

"Obviously," Dean scoffed. "Who doesn't have a costume for Halloween?"

Sam nodded, still looking a bit dubious. "Okay," he drawled. "I'm going to get changed. Tyler's meeting us at reception so we can cross the street into the neighborhoods."

Dean smirked cockily, jumping off the bed. "Better hurry up and make yourself look good, Sammy, or else I might just leave and charm all the candy for myself."

"You wouldn't." Sam shot back, exiting. "Jerk."

As soon as Sam was gone, the smirk fell right off of Dean's face, and he rushed out into the main room, hearing Sam close the bathroom door. "Hey, Sammy?" he called.

"It's Sam!" Sam replied.

"Where's Dad?"

"He went to go talk to some lady about the hunt. Walked there, I think it was at the diner down the street. Said he'd bring back dinner."

That was all he needed to know. "Okay. Thanks, Sammy."

"_Dean_!"

Dean found his dad's leather jacket hanging on one of the kitchenette tables, and he slung it on, rolling up the sleeves so he could move his hands. As fast as he could, he ran out into the parking lot, looking around to make sure no one was watching and cracking open the trunk of the Impala, lifting the false flooring and hastily grabbing a length of rope and one of Dad's nasty-looking silver blades in a sheath. He deliberated for a moment before snatching one of John's hats that he wore when he played Detective or Cop. John told him that it wasn't 'playing', but he wasn't really either of those things, so Dean really didn't see how it wasn't. He closed the trunk and ran back inside, tying the length of rope in circles to this belt loops and fastening the sheath to his other pant leg. He managed to put the hat on and fix his hair before Sam emerged from the bathroom, donning a yellow Star Trek shirt and black pants. Dean took the pillow cases off of two of their pillows (surprised there wasn't just newspaper or rocks inside), and handed one to Sam.

"Man, you are the dorkiest Captain I have ever seen." Dean said good-naturedly, with a grin on his face. He gestured to his own 'costume'. "What do you think? I'm Indiana Jones!"

Sam raised an eyebrow, moving past him with a smile. "If you say so."

Dean huffed out a laugh. "Hey, I'm still better looking than you, nerd."

They met Tyler and his little sister by one year by the reception building, waved goodbye to Tyler's parents in the car, and spent the next two hours trick-or-treating, the first time since...hell, Dean didn't know the last time they'd been in the same town long enough for Sammy to make friends and to get to go trick-or-treating on Halloween.

He was happy if Sam was happy, he really was, and he wasn't the guy to pass up free candy, although he'd make sure none of it was opened or messed with before Sam ate it. But he knew that now he'd have to stay up all night with a flashlight in an uncomfortable position to finish that book.

Some people gave him compliments on his 'costume' when they answered the door, but no one looked at his blade with a weird eye. No one assumed for a minute that if he took off the hat and put a double barrel shotgun in his hand, he'd look just like his dad did, in his real job. As a hunter. They just looked at him as though he was wearing another costume, another mask.

Dean sure felt like he was.

* * *

The next day, Dean planned on staying after English class last period to give his book back to Ms. Waller, because he had only slept two hours the night before trying to finish it, but it turned out that he didn't have to. Ms. Waller told him when he walked into the room to stay after class.

She didn't look like she wanted to start a book club.

"You wanted to see me, ma'am?" Dean asked quietly, up at the front now that the other students were out of the classroom, off to sports or clubs or whatever normal people did. Ms. Waller hadn't sat down, but now she rested on the edge of her desk.

"Dean, you're a smart kid, right?" Ms. Waller asked, and Dean recognized concern on her face. Hell, what had he done now?

He set his backpack tentatively on one of the desks and shrugged. "I dunno," He replied. "Not really."

Something flashed across Ms. Waller's face, but Dean couldn't tell what it was. She rubbed her thumb against the palm of her other hand. "Why don't you ever do your homework, Dean? You've been here for three weeks now, and the only thing you've handed in, in most of your classes, are project essays that, in my personal opinion, you don't even try to do properly or to your full potential. My colleagues in the elementary school tell me that your brother practically jumps at the opportunity to do extra assignments."

_Yeah, well that's because Sammy's the smartest little jerk in the whole country_, Dean thought, but the words didn't make it out of his mouth, so he just shrugged again instead. Ms. Waller sighed in exasperation. She bit her thumbnail, and then looked at him.

"Dean, how many schools have you been to in the past couple of years?" She asked, eyebrows hitched. Dean mulled that over.

"I dunno," He sat down on the edge of a desk, but his eyes were trained on the door like a caged animal wanting to escape. "I think...nineteen? I lost count."

Ms. Waller's eyes were wide for a moment, but she blinked, and then they were normal again. "And at any of these schools, did any of your teachers collect homework?"

Dean scoffed silently. "Sure they did."

"And did you do any of your assigned work?"

"No."

"Did your father ever notice?"

"If he did, he didn't say nothing."

"Anything." Ms. Waller corrected him automatically, and immediately regretted it when she saw the look of indignation cross his face like a lock on a door. "Well...did your teachers ever confront you about it?"

Dean shifted. "A couple," he responded, eyes now on the floor. "But we never stay anywhere long enough for it to matter."

There was a lengthy, awkward pause between the two, until Ms. Waller broke the silence. "Why don't you do your homework, Dean? It reflects on your grade."

"'Cause it doesn't matter." Dean said, tone now obstinate out of seemingly nowhere. "Teachers just, they just want me to do stuff that doesn't matter."

"Is it because you feel like you can't do it?"

Dean stepped back abruptly, the desk screeching as it skidded on the floor. The eyes that whipped up were hurt, shielded, and indignant. "No!" He nearly shouted, and then fixed the level of the volume of his voice. "I...It just doesn't matter!"

"Do you feel as though the books I've let you borrow have been assigned reading, Dean?"

He looked up. "No."

"Is that why you're actually reading them?"

The hard, almost scary look in Dean's eyes faded, and he swallowed. "No," he admitted. "No, I like them."

"Why do you read the books, but don't do your homework?"

Dean thought for a moment, carefully choosing his words. "I can do math and stuff already, but I...I just haven't read a lot of books before." As if he had revealed too much, he clammed up, tension seizing his body. He took _The Giver_ out of his backpack and put it on her desk. "I have to go pick up Sammy." He left the classroom without dismissal, leaving Ms. Waller thoughtful and troubled.

The day after she gave him another book after class, and he accepted it. The day after that a pile of completed grammar handouts with Dean Simmons scratched at the top of each paper found its way onto her desk.

* * *

"This kid, he doesn't do any of his homework as long as he's been here, for weeks, and yesterday he just comes up to my desk and hands in this pile, this huge _stack_ of homework, all of the handouts I've given out since the day he came, and they're all completed."

"So he had a bad conscience?" One of the eighth grade Spanish teachers, leaned back in his chair as he addressed the seventh grade math teacher. "Not the first time."

"No, you don't understand." The math teacher, Mr. Harson, stuffed his face with over-dressed salad vehemently. Ms. Waller grabbed her Tupperware full of leftover chicken alfredo and took a seat at that table, listening intently. "It wasn't just that he handed them in, finally, but...nearly every single question, he got them correct."

"You checked them?" The same Spanish teacher, Mr. Ngo, raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"The kid just sleeps through my class," Mr. Harson explained. "Doesn't pay attention, takes a good nap in the back corner. I know, because one day some other kid decided to poke him awake and he went ballistic, I had to send him to the principal's office before he started a brawl. He hasn't learned any of the material because he chooses not to, but somehow he knows it all. We took a quiz yesterday, and I watched him to make sure he wasn't cheating. He's the kind of kid that would, but I didn't see him do a thing. Handed it in, got a solid A-."

"You guys talking about Dean Simmons?" The gym teacher, Mrs. Santos, took a seat, her hand wrapped around a sandwich. Lunch hour called for hasty eating. "Kid's so antisocial he barely speaks to the ground, let alone other people. Can swing a baseball bat like nobody's business, though. He's gonna be a great player when he grows up."

"Dean's brilliant." Ms. Waller spoke up, and found three heads swiveled toward her. She swallowed her bite of food, cleared her throat nervously. "And he's not shy."

"He barely does his homework, sleeps through class, and doesn't make any friends," Mr. Harson replied. "That doesn't really spell out Advanced Placement to me."

"You just said yourself that he does well on assessments." Ms. Waller pointed out. "I've been loaning him books, and he's capable of at least a twelfth grade reading level. He showed me his papers, told me how he helps his little brother with his math homework. He said that his father's toaster broke the other day, and he fixed it for him while he was at work."

"What about this mysterious Mr. Simmons?" Mrs. Santos mused. "He didn't come for parent-teacher conferences, hell, outside of signing his kids up for school he hasn't shown at all. His little boy, Sam, just had a little play that his class put on, my daughter's in the same grade, and Dean was there by himself to receive him."

"I heard that he had some sort of accident." Mr. Harson added. "Paul lives down the street from the motel that they're staying at–"

"They stay at a _motel_?"

"Dean himself seems battered, came in yesterday with a bruise on his neck and a bandaged nose–"

"Well no wonder the kid doesn't like people, look what's happened–"

"He's afraid." Ms. Waller broke in, and everyone fell silent. "He's afraid to get to know people, and he's afraid to look smart. He wants to stay under the radar, and doesn't think school is important for whatever reason. He thinks it isn't the kind of stuff that he needs to learn, and he thinks that they'll drop out and move somewhere else any day now, so he just doesn't try."

"Clarice, I don't think–"

"He's been to nearly twenty schools in the past two years, he has a nearly absent father and he has to take care of a little brother." She put the top on her chicken alfredo, stood up. "He's one of the most intelligent students I've seen, but even I don't blame him for not caring."

Mr. Harson stopped her before she could storm out, promised to give Dean another look and treat him better, try to gauge where he was so that maybe they could address him and try to open him up. No kid should have to go through school lonely, he told her. Too many already did.

A week later, Dean Simmons came into school with a black eye and all of his homework completed. He finished another one of her books, aced two of his math quizzes, and passed her assessment on prepositional phrases with flying colors. Mrs. Santos offered him a place on the middle school basketball team.

He declined.

* * *

Sam loved soccer. He always signed up for the school team, no matter how long they were staying in a town, and he never, ever told his father. He had yet to not tell Dean, but his older brother knew that there'd be a time when the soccer field was too far away to walk to, and he'd have to tell their father, so Sam would just clam up about the matter completely. Dean had never really understood the sport, had opted once to play baseball instead, that one time in Omaha when they stayed in a town for three months, and since they had stayed two blocks from the fields, John had let him play Little League. He had played shortstop and pitcher, switched off with this other kid. He had been good at it. Really good.

Then John had killed the werewolf and they had packed their things. They didn't look back, at least, they weren't supposed to. Dean found out two weeks later that his team had won the All-star championship. Without him.

Dean wiped his nose with his sleeve, looking up from his book and gazing at the soccer field across from the playground. He was seated on the abandoned swings, sometimes watching his little brother run drills and other times looking down at the newest book he had been given. This time it was _To Kill A Mockingbird_, and while it was taking him a little longer than the others, he was enjoying it.

He didn't really understand why people acted like other men were monsters just because of the way they looked. He had been taught to save the hatred and the anger for the real evil, the supernatural things.

But John had once told him that people could be monsters, too. He hadn't finished the book yet, wasn't even halfway through, so he guessed that he really couldn't judge.

He watched Sam send a soccer ball into the top left corner of the goal, watched the next kid miss. Ms. Waller had said that he showed the most interest in books out of any seventh grader she'd ever taught. Well, whatever, it wasn't like he was doing it for her. He liked the stories, and he needed to be smarter for John. Nearly all of his teachers once upon a time had told him that reading made you smarter, so that's what he did. He hadn't realized that it was important–well, semi-important, more like sixth on a list–until now, but now he read, albeit in private and away from his father's eyes, yet he read and kept reading. He took whatever Ms. Waller offered and gave it back when he was finished. He figured why the hell not, it wasn't like he was going to live long enough to retire, so he might as well get all the reading done before he became so stupid he hurt somebody other than himself.

Like he had nearly hurt John.

The vengeful spirit was picky about its victims, but apparently not picky enough to not go after whoever disturbed it's main haunting room in the attic of some old town hall. It had surprised Dean, picked him up by the neck and threw him at his father and down a flight of stairs. John had sprained his ankle, Dean got a cut on his nose. It could have been much worse, really.

Dean still felt like it was his fault. He could have been stronger, faster, smarter.

"Hey, Simmons." A voice shocked him out of his funk, and he snapped his head up. Some kid in his class was standing in front of his place on the swing with three of his friends behind him. His name was Bradley, or Brady, Bryan, Benedict, it really didn't matter. What mattered was that all of his friends looked bigger and older than him, and they looked like they wanted trouble.

Dean smiled.

"What'cha got there, Simmons?" Bryadict, as Dean had now dubbed him, taunted, stepping a little closer, which was frankly far too close for comfort. Dean put his hands up.

"Whoa, whoa, personal bubble." He smirked, and then held up the book. "This here's a book. It's something people read, but I know you don't know how to do that yet."

The kid tilted his head. "Ha ha, very funny. Why are you sitting out here all alone, you got no friends, bitch?"

One of the kids behind him laughed. "He's too freaky to have friends."

"Too ugly." Another snorted.

"Too much of a nerd." The third snatched his book out of his of his hands, and Dean stood up, trying to grab it back, seething.

"I heard you had an accident, fucktard." The first kid jeered. "What did you do? Give yourself a papercut?"

"Probably got rejected by a girl, the nerd." The biggest, stupidest kid jumped in. Unfortunately, the others added on.

"He's so ugly that she thought he was a monster."

One of the kids snickered grossly, and held his arms out, marching in place in a bad impression of the Frankenstein monster. The other kids started doing the same. Dean sighed.

"Why are you always reading, Simmons? Trying to find somewhere that people actually like you?"

"Good luck."

"Why don't you run home to your Mommy?" Bry-whatever cocked his head, smiling. He paused. "Oh, wait."

Dean lunged at him, not caring where the kid had found out, not caring whether he even properly knew. He punched one of the bigger kids in the jaw and elbowed another in his chest, feeling a give of flesh and then smiling. He swept the feet of the third and then pulled the B-kid up by his shirt, two fists curled in the fabric. The kid gaped at him, mouth hanging open and moving slightly. Dean lifted him off of the ground, anger swirling inside of him, blind fury that he hadn't felt since someone had tripped Sam down the school stairs in Wichita. He seethed for a minute, almost sure that there was smoke coming out of his ears. "Don't." He snarled, and dropped the kid back on the ground. He picked up his book and bag, and then walked away toward the soccer field, where the kids had ended their practice. He left the bullies behind, one sniffling and another holding his jaw. Satisfied that the soccer coach had been talking to someone and effectively facing the other way, he grabbed Sam's arm as he passed and continued walking toward the road.

"Dean?" Sam questioned, looking back at the playground and then to his brother, backpack slung across one shoulder and slightly ripped book in his right hand.

Dean kept walking. "Time to go, Sammy."

* * *

"Why'd you beat up those guys?" Sam asked, swinging his feet back and forth on top of the table he was sitting on in the back of the public library. Dean had taken them there 1) because Sammy had said that he wanted to go, and 2) because John wasn't home yet, and wouldn't be until dinner. All of the buses had already left, and it was a quiet space where Dean could set Sam down with a book, and do a little reading himself.

Or so he had thought. He'd thought wrong. Obviously.

"I didn't beat them up." Dean muttered, falling back into an armchair. "I gave them a warning."

"Why'd they need that?"

"'Cause they were dicks."

Sam bit his lip, looking around the library and sighing. Dean tried his hardest to keep his eyes on the pages with the words. "Why are we here, Dean?"

"Because."

"Why?"

Dean huffed. "Because Dad forgot to give me a key this morning."

"There's a spare one under the block under the mat." Sam pointed out. Dean dragged a hand down his face.

"You were the one who wanted to come here in the first place, jerk, so stop bitchin'."

Sam crossed his arms, stared at his swinging feet and the flecks of dirt occasionally flying off of his sneakers. "You read a lot."

"Is it a crime?"

"No, but...you never read. But in the past couple weeks, all you've done is read." Suddenly, his face lit up. "Do you want to be a writer?"

"No, Sammy."

"What about...what about a journalist? Or a scientist! You could be a astronaut! A journal-science astronaut!" Sam's smile was nearly contagious, his excitement unparalleled, and it made Dean roll his eyes. Flashes of flame caught his subconscious, big men in big suits with red hats and long hoses and oxygen masks, saving people without hunting things.

"Nah, Sam." He grinned at him. "I'm gonna be a hunter, like Dad."

Sam huffed, rolled his whole head in exasperation. The same old song and dance. "Dean, you–you can be _anything_ you want. You don't have to be a hunter," Sam assured him, giving him an encouraging smile, glancing at his brother and the book in his hands with adoration and confidence. Hope.

Dean just scoffed, turned his head, nodded to himself. "Yeah, Sammy. I do."

"No, you _don't_!" Sam spat. "Who says that you have to hunt, Dean? Do you want to?"

"I have to." Dean said sternly, knowing where this conversation was going.

"But you don't!"

"Dad wants me too, Sammy." Dean stressed. "He wants _us_ to save people."

"Why do we have to do it forever?" Sam asked, shifting in his position. "I haven't...gone with you yet, and I, I want to, I really do, but I don't understand why you gotta do it forever."

Dean smiled. "It's not for forever."

"Yeah, it's not, because someday Dad's gonna die hunting, and you are too." Sam muttered. His gaze turned hard. "No one else but you is dumb enough to want to hunt, Dean. No one throws away their life like that."

Dean's smile faded, and he brought his book up toward his face again, bringing his knees up to his chest and blocking Sam out. "Yeah, well, maybe I'm stupid like that."

Sam huffed in apparent agreement, and Dean brought his legs in tighter, dropping a heavy head on his knees.

"You know," He snapped up, pointing at Sam. He got up and grabbed some tape from one of the tables, facing away from Sam and gingerly, gently taping the rips on the book back together. "You better get those ideas out of your head now, 'cause we're sticking around and sticking with it. It's dangerous, but it's what we do." He paused. "What Dad does is good."

Sam scoffed, and Dean could feel his smile, knew he wouldn't mention it again for awhile. "It's not like I'm just gonna leave you, Dean."

Years from then, when Sam had gone to Stanford and Dad had ditched, Dean would think about that moment, hold his Colt up to his temple, and never pull the trigger.

* * *

Dean slammed his book bag on the coffee table, knowing full well that his father would yell at him, knowing full well that Sam was out with his little friends at an arcade, and knowing damn well that he was about to explode.

"Watch it, son!" John snapped, taking a step forward.

Dean's reaction was swift and immediate. "Yes, sir." He looked down at the ground. That was not how he had wanted that to go. "But...but sir–"

"You are _going_." John stressed. "And that is final. This spirit needs to be taken down, and last time apparently wasn't good enough."

Dean blinked. "Sir–"

"Another person has already died, Dean." John's voice was unforgiving and demanding, just the way Dean responded to without question.

"I, I know, sir." Dean swallowed nervously. Wrung his hands. Held back screams. "It's...it's just that I have this project, and–"

"Since when have you cared about projects, Dean?" John asked, hesitation and uncertainty leaking into his stream of gruff orders. "We'll be leaving the school as soon as the hunt is done. It's just taken me longer to find out who the damn spirit is. We have to go back to the house. We have to end it."

"I get that, sir." Dean was having trouble maintaining his resolve. "It's just that this project counts for a whole lot of my grade for the next marking period–"

"Are you saying you would rather read for a fucking report instead of save lives, Dean?" Now the voice was imposing. Threatening. Yet still hesitant.

"No, sir, but...it's just that my teacher, she gave me this big book to read, she thinks that I'm ready and I'll do really well, and I don't–"

John didn't hear any of it. "Since when are grades more important than the job, Dean?"

Dean fought to swallow the baseball caught in his throat, and itched to hide his backpack from his father's eyes. He can practically feel his report card inside the pocket screaming at him, the one that he had been pleased by, proud of, even, when he had received it that morning. He held back tears (_tears now? You little shit, Dean, such a goddamn baby_), and couldn't help glancing at Sam's report card pinned up on the refrigerator, half a dozen little A's jotted down all down the page. "No, sir. N-Never, sir."

"Are grades more important than saving people, Dean?"

"No."

"Are grades more important than protecting your brother?"

"Never."

"Never, what?"

"Never sir. They'll never be more important. Nothing is."

"What's important, Dean?" John asked, eyebrows furrowed, and if Dean could see his eyes, he might have mistaken the look in them as concern, or even self-hatred. But that was impossible.

"The job's important, sir." Dean replied, forcing certainty into his words. "Protecting Sammy is important. Sam is important."

John paused, cleared his throat. It still caught. "Good. You will come with me tomorrow after school, and we will finish the job." Dean's head stared down. "You and Sam will finish the week at school, but then we are out of here. You got that?"

Dean nodded stiffly, left hand flexing behind his leg, clenching and unclenching. "Yes, sir."

He turned around, grabbing his bag and beginning to trudge into his room. John stopped him. "Dean? After you practice for an hour, you can read your book for school. Just make sure you stay sharp on the hunt tomorrow, okay?"

"Of course." Dean muttered. "Always, sir."

After he practiced with his Latin and his knife throwing in his room, Dean sat down on the bed and heaved up his backpack, knowing Dad had gone to pick up Sammy when he heard the door click and lock. He took out _The Swiss Family Robinson_ and set it down in front of him, and then reached into his bag and pulled out his report card. He stared at it for awhile, all those A's and A-'s, with the one B in History. He stared at it, and then put his book back in the bag, zipping it up and dropping it next to the wall.

He cried a little and ripped his report card to shreds, tearing it into unrecognizable pieces, gathering it into a bowl and burning it. He flushed the ashes down the toilet and kicked it for good measure. He was asleep before Dad and Sam even walked through the door.

John never asked him about the report card. Sam's stayed on the fridge until they left.

* * *

"Alright. Class is over," Ms. Waller came around the front of her desk as the bell rang, and every kid in the whole class stood up simultaneously, stuffing books into their bags and pushing forward through the aisles. "Hand in your book reports on your way out, I'll have them back to you by Monday."

Dean swallowed thickly and stood, slinging his backpack across his shoulder and trudging out from his space in the back. He tried to sneak by with the rest of the kids, but Ms. Waller called out his name, and he stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned around.

"Where is your book report, Dean?" Ms. Waller asked, a slight grin on her face. It was a grin full of expectation. Expectation that he was bound not to meet. "Did you forget to print it?"

"I didn't do it." He muttered, and saw Ms. Waller frown. Her eyes went to his brand new cast on his left arm.

"What happened?" She came forward a step, but then stopped herself. Her eyebrows were bent in such a way that Dean was sure that he could see the wheels turning in her head. His eyes went up to the clock above the whiteboard. 3:07. Dad would be pissed that he was late.

Dean shrugged. "Fell down some stairs. It was pretty stupid."

She blinked. "Did you not have time to do the report, Dean? Because you...fell down the stairs?"

He shook his head 'no' softly. She bit her lip. "Did you hand in any of your homework today, Dean?"

Another shake of the head. Dean sighed. "We're leaving today." He blurted out, saw Ms. Waller's eyebrows go up. "We're going somewhere new, until Thanksgiving. So it doesn't matter. School doesn't matter."

She paused, choosing her words. "Did you read the book, Dean?"

Green eyes flew up onto hers, filled with shock, and a little bit of hurt. He nodded. "Do–" He fumbled for the zipper of his bag. "Do you want it back?"

"No." She answered quickly, and his hands stilled. "I want you to keep it." She moved forward again, and Dean looked up at her. "Dean, never let anyone tell you that something doesn't matter, or that you're not smart enough. Because you _are_, Dean. You are brilliant. And I know that it's easier, pretending you're not, but you are, and you can't let someone else tell you what you can't be."

Dean nodded ever-so-softly, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

And then John Winchester burst into her classroom.

"Dean, it's time to go." He barked, still using somewhat of an 'inside voice'. "You're nearly ten minutes late."

"Yes, sir." Dean moved away from her and behind his dad, ready to walk out of the door. Ms. Waller extended her hand, trying not to act shocked or scared.

"You must be Mr. Simmons." She spoke politely. John took her hand quickly, for manners' sake. "I'm your son's English teacher."

Dean held back the '_Not anymore_' tempted to escape from his throat. John glanced at Dean, and then directed his gaze back to the teacher. "That's...that's good."

"I'd just like to tell you how wonderfully your son has performed during his time here." If her words shocked John, he didn't show it. "And while I know that you are moving on to a different school, I'd like to suggest to you that Dean consider gifted classes, at least in English or Mathematics."

John stared at her, long having dropped the handshake. "He doesn't need that." He replied, pivoting around. "Thank you."

"But sir, Mr. Simmons, please," John didn't even have a moment to scoff to himself about the alias before the teacher was practically clinging to his sleeve. She looked him up and down, realized with a start that someone did tell Dean what was important. Dean was impressionable, like many kids. Dean was also loyal to his father. "You're making a mistake. You-you don't understand, Dean is brilliant, he's amazingly gifted, he's...he's a genius, can't you see?"

John shifted his gaze to Dean, head bowed and stature nearly embracing the doorway. He shifted his jaw, and Dean's eyes flashed before he shook his head slowly, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, or gulped, John could never tell. That was all the confirmation he needed. He swung his head back at the teacher, whose eyes were watery. How dare she pretend to care about Dean, _his_ son, that had only been at this godforsaken school for a few weeks?

"Don't tell me about my son." He practically snarled, and the woman shrank back as John put a hand on Dean's shoulder and directed him out of the office and down the hall. If Dean looked back, John didn't know it, but Dean walked briskly and with a purpose. They had to go.

Sammy was in the car.


End file.
